


The Fireside Storybook, Volume I

by Falcolmreynolds



Series: Peregrine Reynolds' Private Collection of Works from the Library of Jurgen Leitner [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Abuse, Arson, Burning, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abuse, Cinderella - Freeform, Fairy tale retelling, From the Library of Jurgen Leitner, Gen, Immolation, Leitner, Leitner book, Library of Jurgen Leitner, Maid Maleen, Retelling, fairy tale, how could i forget the arson, i claim no responsibility for acts of arson committed by readers, match girl, revenge! :), thank you to sur la lune for the base of mm and for a lot of the annotations, the lightless flame, what do you expect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22686259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falcolmreynolds/pseuds/Falcolmreynolds
Series: Peregrine Reynolds' Private Collection of Works from the Library of Jurgen Leitner [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611286
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	1. Cinderella

Once there was a woman who had two daughters. She did not love them, not really, but she enjoyed that they could be used for her own purposes.

Now in this woman’s town, a charming city on the coast, there lived a rich merchant-man who had a fine house and a lovely wife and a daughter whom he doted upon. He was quite wealthy, and the woman was not, but she knew that if she could find a way to wed him, she would be.

So she contrived a plan. On one evening in autumn, she went silently through the chill and set fire to his home while he was away on a trip, while only his wife and daughter remained. Their house burned to nothing, and she thought she had done her job.

But she did not realize then, and only found the next day, that his daughter had survived. Still, she thought, that would not be a trouble. She could be rid of the daughter later.

The woman was very skilled in her manipulation of others, and once the man returned from his journey, she found her way into his good graces. In the spring-time, once the snows had melted, they were married, and he had a new home built for him, not too close to the ashes of the old, but not too far, either.

The man’s daughter had once been a fair and beautiful girl, but in the terrible fire that had killed her mother, she had sustained awful burns on her face and arms. Now she spent much of her time indoors, hiding her scarred face and body from the world.

The stepmother - for that is what she now was - hated this girl. Her own daughters were far more beautiful than the scarred girl, and when the stepmother’s husband was not around, she laughed at the girl and ridiculed her, and let her daughters treat her as a common servant or a slave. Slowly she began to convince the man that his daughter was no better than a serving-maid, and so the girl was made to give up all her things to her step-sisters, including her bed, and sleep on a blanket by the fireplace if she wanted to be warm at night.

“If she were meant to be spoiled as you had been treating her,” the stepmother said to her husband, “then why would she have been burned so badly? God Himself sought to humble her petty pride and vanity!”

So it went for many years, and slowly the girl began to forget that she had a name before the fire. The stepmother certainly did not try to help her remember, and when the girl’s father died, so did any hope she had of returning to the life that was hers before her step-mother’s actions had destroyed it. So it was that she became consumed by the memory of the fire, and her name fell from the minds of everyone around her, and she was thereafter known only as the ash-girl, the cinder-maiden, Cinderella.

Cinderella was no fool. She knew what her stepmother had done, for she had learned of it from her step-sisters, who had bragged to her one night while she had been weeping by the fire. “Stupid girl,” they’d sneered, looking at her kneeling on the hearth-stones. “Fall into the fireplace, maybe, and you’ll be gone just like your mother was. Why, we should kick you in ourselves, and finish what we started.” They were, of course, quick to take credit for anything their mother achieved, be those acts good or ill.

So Cinderella understood that her stepmother was to blame for her appearance and her fate. But she knew nothing of what she could do.

After several years, there finally came an opportunity for Cinderella’s stepmother to finally find a way to rise once more in the ranks of society. Her stepdaughters were very beautiful, of course, and there came an announcement throughout the land that the King’s son, who lived in the castle by the sea in the very city where the stepmother held her family, was trying to find for himself a wife. Now, he was not the crown prince, so he need not have sought out a princess, and thus his attentions were free for any maiden who might capture them, regardless of her upbringing.

Of course, Cinderella momentarily entertained the idea of being the one he chose. But she looked at herself in her stepsisters’ mirror, and knew immediately that she would never capture his eye. She was a twisted wreck of a person, her skin covered almost entirely by patchy, shiny burns. She would not be allowed entry into the palace.

Her stepsisters and stepmother took every opportunity to flaunt their beauty in front of her, telling her of course she would never make it, but that they may throw her a few extra scraps when one of the stepsisters managed to find her way to the prince’s arm, if she behaved well enough.

This bothered the girl. Of course it did - for no one would be able to endure such insults and not suffer, silently if nothing else. But she said nothing of it, for she knew that if she did, she would only face further retribution from her horrible stepmother.

On the first night of the ball, which would continue for three consecutive evenings, Cinderella was pressed into helping her step-sisters prepare for the dance. She stayed quiet when they complained, pulling their hair into intricate designs with her scarred hands. They poked and prodded her, sticking needles into her skin where the scars couldn’t feel it, laughing when she found one and pulled it out without a word.

When they departed, she found herself alone in the house, and had nothing to do but sit by the fire, her hands wrapped around her knees. Oh, if she could return to the days before the fire!

But the Fire spoke to her then, whispering from the black shadows of the hearth. “You wish to be radiant and beautiful,” it said, and she listened. “But that does not matter. One must only be radiant and beautiful if they are not powerful. What is it that you desire most? Tell me.”

Cinderella let herself speak, which she rarely did. “I wish to go to the ball as well,” she said, “but they will never let me in, for I have only rags to wear, and my scars are too terrible to look at.”

“Then wear something new, and stay away, that they may only look at you from a distance,” the Fire told her.

“But what could I wear? I cannot take my sisters’ clothing; it does not fit me, and they would know if I did.”

“Reach out,” the Fire told her, “into my depths.”

And behold, a fire sprang up in the hearth. Cinderella stretched out one hand and put it into the flames, and they did not hurt her, dancing around her discolored fingertips like candle-shadows.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, “you’re beautiful.”

The Fire then leaped onto her arm and ran down it to her body, and in moments, her entire form was aflame. But she felt no pain, and indeed she came to no harm. The fire danced over her like a living creature, and she laughed out loud, amazed by it.

“To call upon me,” the Fire said to her, “just blow into your hands, as if you are stoking an ember, and I will come to you.” Then the flames died to nothing and left Cinderella unharmed, and swiftly she got up and left the house.

The Prince’s ball was held at the shore of the ocean, on a great floor of marble placed atop the sand. Columns had been erected about it and great tent-tops and banners put up, to keep any weather off. The evening air was mildly breezy, not strong enough to do more than ruffle the edges of the ladies’ dresses or blow bonnets backwards if it gave a particularly strong gust.

Cinderella made her way to the sea, and when she was just a street away, she hid herself behind a garden-gate and a sand dune and raised her hands to her face. “Sweet Fire, sweet Fire, send your light to me,” she whispered, and blew into her hands as if kindling a coal. At once the flames sprang up all over her body and poured down over her rags like a fine ballgown, and Cinderella walked the rest of the way to the beach.

She was afraid, though, that her step-mother and step-sisters would be there, so she climbed to the top of a dune and stood there, watching the ball. She saw they notice her immediately, for they pointed and shouted, but she knew from this distance they could not see her. The flames were too strong for them to see her face.

“See how they are in awe of you,” the Fire said. “This is your right.”

But she was too afraid to go down to them, and after a time, she turned and left. The sun had gone down, and she did not want to be missing from her house when her stepmother and step-sisters arrived, lest they realize what she had done and beat her for it.

When she was away from the dunes, she raised her hands to her mouth. “Sweet Fire, sweet Fire, hide your colors from the world,” she said, and the flames died instantly and left her once again a scarred and dirty girl in a ragged dress.

She ran home. Presently her step-family arrived, and they were furious, for it had been while they had met with the prince that they had seen the girl on fire atop the dunes, and the Prince had forgotten all about them. For the first time in many years, Cinderella found herself smiling.

“He won’t forget about us tomorrow,” the elder step-sister said. “What are you laughing at, Cinderella? Are you laughing at me?”

“No, step-sister,” Cinderella said, casting her eyes down and forcing herself to look demure. “I only remembered an old joke my mother used to tell.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear it,” the younger step-sister said. “Help us out of our dresses, and be quick about it! We have to be rested for tomorrow.”

The following evening, Cinderella again helped her step-family get ready for the evening’s ball. But this time, as soon as they were gone, she crouched at the hearth. “Fire, Fire,” she cried, into the ashes. “Where are you?”

“Here, child,” the Fire said, appearing again in a rainbow of flame. “What do you desire?”

“I wish to go to the ball, but I fear they will not let me in.”

“I will clothe you again in flame, Cinderella, and they will not dare look at your face. They will see the light of your dress and the crown upon your head and they will let you pass. Do not worry. You may go and be wreathed in fire, and you will be loved.”

Cinderella was reassured by this, and so she slipped out of the house and ran to the beach, and hid in the grasses and dunes near the shore. She watched her stepmother and step-sisters arrive in a fancy carriage.

“Sweet Fire, sweet Fire,” she said, whispering into her cupped hands, “send your beauty unto me.” As she spoke the flames once again leaped up from her hands and raced over her body, transforming into a brilliant gown. Now it had a train that floated over the dune-grass, not burning where the gossamer strands touched the greenery, and upon her head there was a circlet of flame with tall spires of wavering light. Cinderella knew this would outshine her burned face, and so this time when she climbed to the top of the dune she did not stop but kept walking, down the far side and across the beach.

As the Fire had said, the guards let her pass, assuming she was some type of royal. She struggled only a bit walking on the sand, for where she stepped the sand grew so hot it melted to glass, and she was able to walk across it as if it were solid ground.

The other ladies at the ball moved out of her way, not willing to risk touching her fiery gown. She did not mind this, for she was too afraid to speak to them, lest any of them recognize her voice. They all shielded their eyes when she appeared, so she knew they did not see her.

The Prince was again speaking with Cinderella’s step-sisters, but he went silent as she approached. She wanted to speak to him - oh, but she was too nervous! Instead she simply circled around him, leaving shining footprints in the sand, and walked away, through the rest of the dance. The marble floor of the temporary ballroom did not burn under her feet, but she did leave soot and ash over the smooth surface.

She was the center of attention, and it made her uncomfortable. After she had walked around the ballroom again, she turned and walked away over the sand, into the dunes.

“Wait!” cried a voice after her - the Prince. “Wait, fire maiden! Please!”

“Fire, I do not want to be followed,” Cinderella whispered, and in that moment her dress burst into light so bright that she could hardly see. She heard a cry from behind her and broke into a run, and by the time the light died down, she was far away into the dunes. Cinderella blew into her hands again and the light vanished.

As she sat down in the grasses, sighing in relief, she heard boots. Around the path came the Prince and some of his guards. He saw her sitting in the grass and stepped back, his face twisted in disgust. “Tell me, beggar,” he said, “where did the maiden of flames go?”

“That way,” Cinderella said, and pointed into the dunes. “That way she walked, the girl of fire.”

The Prince did not answer, but ran onwards. Cinderella gathered herself up and returned home as quickly as she could, her throat filled with a sour burning.

When Cinderella’s family arrived home, they were again angry, worse this time than the night before.

“Who does she think she is?” snarled the elder sister, ripping off her gloves and hurling them to the ground.

“It’s not proper, it’s not right,” complained the younger sister, throwing her little purse-bag against the wall. “It’s not fair!”

“Now, now,” the stepmother said, folding her arms. “She is just a senseless wench, whoever she is. The prince won’t find her with that silly glass footprint. It’s absurd, thinking that anybody would fit into that!”

Cinderella desperately wanted to ask what she meant, but the memory of the Prince’s face, disdainful and hateful, flashed through her mind, and she realized she did not want to risk her stepmother’s anger for an answer she didn’t truly desire.

“‘Whosoever fits in the imprint of the fire maiden’s foot shall be my wife,’” the elder step-sister quoted, with her upper lip wrinkled. “What a fool he is!”

“A dumb fool,” the stepmother agreed, “and so, if he has not found her by tomorrow night, we will trick him. You will claim the footprint. One of you will marry him, and that is that.”

“I will!” the younger step-sister declared. “I will marry the Prince!”

“No, I will!” the older snapped. “I’m older than you. I should get to!”

“No, I’m younger, like his maiden,” the younger replied. “I will be his wife!”

Thus they fought over it for an hour, and Cinderella found herself smiling again, at the two of them each imagining they could fit into her footprint and marry the Prince.

“What are you laughing at, Cinderella?” the stepmother said, to Cinderella, when she noticed her in the corner. “Are you laughing at us?”

“Nothing, step-mother,” she said, “only at an old story my mother told me that I remembered.”

“Fah! Well, I don’t want to hear it,” the step-mother fussed. “Help us with our dresses, and be quick about it!”

On the third evening, the final evening, Cinderella again helped her family with their dresses, and did their hair and makeup and jewelry, and made them look as beautiful as she could.

“When we return,” the stepmother said, triumphantly, “one of us will be betrothed to the Prince. Perhaps even me! If you’ve been good, we may take you to the palace with us.” It was as if they had forgotten about the fire maiden entirely.

Cinderella bid them good-bye, and they did not bid her good-bye, and they departed in a carriage. Then she crouched by the hearth and once again stretched her hands out into it.

She did not have to speak this time. Fire appeared, springing up, and said, “Cinderella. What is it you desire?”

“I wish to go to the ball,” Cinderella said, and paused. She was not entirely certain what it was she wanted. “And when I am there…”

“When you are there?”

“I don’t know.” She paused, letting the flames dance through her fingertips. “I wish to… to go where I please, and do what I wish.”

“That, I can give you,” Fire said, and leaped up onto her arms. She felt the warmth of the flames, but none of the pain, and she knew it was because she had already felt it long ago when her house had burned and taken her mother with it.

This time, she stood where she was and let the fire cover her. It leaped from her new gown of flames to the floor and walls, and when Cinderella left her house this time, she left it alight.

She walked all the way through the city to the shore, and when she arrived, the guards bowed to her and let her pass. It was dark now, and she knew they could only see the gleam of embers that nestled against her skin, and the flames that licked the sky from her brow.

The Prince was waiting for her. She saw that resting on a pedestal was a red silk pillow, and upon that was a footprint cast from glass. It had been pulled out of the sand.

“My fire maiden,” the Prince cried, holding out his hands, “you’ve come back!”

“I am not here for you,” Cinderella said, and turned to those watching. In them, she saw her stepmother and step-sisters, and she walked towards them. They shrank away from her in fear, but no one would let them away, and she stopped just before them, feeling the heat radiate from her.

“Fire Maiden,” they said, and Cinderella realized they could not recognize her behind the fire. “What do you want of us? We will give you anything! We admire your beauty and radiance.”

“Beauty and radiance are needless if you have power,” the Fire whispered, in Cinderella’s mind. “But you have all three, Cinderella.”

“Do you know me?” she asked.

“No! No! We have only seen you here,” the three of them cried. “Please, Fire Maiden, let us serve you and be with you!”

“What a strange thing to say,” Cinderella said. “For all of the times you have hurt me, now you wish me to be your mistress? Very well. Fire, show them who I am.”

The flames at once died away, and everyone around her gasped in the sudden darkness. As they peered through it, they realized what they were looking at - a horribly burnt, scarred girl, standing with bare feet on the marble, wearing a stained and ragged dress.

“You?!” the Prince said, rising from his seat. “What devilry is this?”

“Sit down,” she said, turning her eyes upon him, and he froze where he was and sank down.

“You!” her family gasped, and said nothing more.

“You were the kindest to me,” Cinderella said, pointing to the younger step-sister. “Come forward.”

“O, Fire Maiden,” the youngest sister said, trembling with fear. “Please, I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You were the kindest to me,” Cinderella repeated. “So I will reward you first.”

The younger sister came forwards and knelt, and Cinderella smiled at her, kindly. “Your death will be the swiftest and first,” she said, and touched her step-sister in the center of the forehead.

With a great howling cry, the younger step-sister began to burn. At first she simply fell writhing to the ground, and then the flames burst out of her like angry snakes, swarming over her clothing until all that was left of her was a pile of black ash and blackened bones.

“Please, Cinderella!” her stepmother begged, with wide eyes. “Do not harm us!”

The guards were moving forwards. Cinderella held out a hand. “Fire,” she said, “do not let them touch me.”

Around her and her step-family, a circle of flames leaped up; she saw those outside it halt where they were, watching her, but unable to reach her.

Next, she reached out and touched her other step-sister. “You were cruel,” she said, “and your death will hurt more. You have seen your sister burn. Now you will also. But I will not make you watch your mother burn. No, she deserves worse than to go before you do.”

Her other step-sister burned from the outwards in, her fingertips and feet catching alight first. She screamed and fell to the ground, rolling about to try and put the flames out, but of course it did not work. The only thing left at the end was her charred heart sitting inside a cracked ribcage.

The stepmother was last. Cinderella walked towards her and took her hand. As she did, her stepmother screamed in pain, but she did not take her hand away, watching the skin redden and blister.

“You,” she said, “took everything from me. And so I have taken everything from you. You burned my mother. I burned your daughters. You burned my home. Your home is now ash. You destroyed me. And now, stepmother, I will destroy you.”

“Cinderella,” her stepmother said, but Cinderella had tired at this point of hearing excuses. She let got of her stepmother’s hand and stepped back, and watched as the fire began to eat her from the feet up, slowly. It was not fire this time - it was an invisible heat, so great it blackened her clothing and skin and flesh, turning her to cinders as it crept upwards. She screamed, of course, but that did nothing to stop the inexorable creep of the lightless flame.

When the stepmother had no legs to stand on, she tried to crawl away with her hands, but she could not escape. The fire was around her on all sides. Cinderella watched as she was burned to nothing, her remains hissing and bubbling where they wet, crackling and turning to dust and powder where they were dry.

When she was gone, the fire that encircled her leaped back to her and climbed to her form, becoming once again a ballgown.

“Thank you,” she said, to the Fire.

“You are loved,” the Fire replied. “I will do anything for you. I love you.”

“And I you,” Cinderella said.

She knelt down and placed one hand on the marble floor, and with that touch, a wave of flame ran out. She saw it race to the edges of the room, to the columns and banners, saw it leap to the decorations and begin to burn them all. Turning, Cinderella strode away from the castle and the prince, and behind her, it burned.


	2. Maid Maleen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the paragraph formatting of this particular tale is really weird, lumping many characters' dialogue fragments into a single paragraph, but I felt like it added to the feel of the story so I left it in there and tried to adhere to it.

There was once a King who had a son who asked in marriage for the hand of the daughter of another mighty King, and she was called Maid Maleen, and was very beautiful, as only one maiden in a generation is. As her father wished to give her to another, the prince was rejected; but as they both loved each other with all their hearts, they would not give each other up, and Maid Maleen said to her father, “It matters not to whom I am betrothed by thine word! Thou canst not command my heart. I can and will take no other for my husband.”

Then the King flew into a passion, and ordered a dark tower to be built, into which no ray of sunlight or moonlight should enter. When it was finished, he said, “Therein shalt thou be imprisoned for seven years, and then I will come and see if thy perverse spirit is broken.”

At this Maid Maleen was very afraid, and she hastened to the rookery at once and sent a raven to her beloved, begging him for help. The raven departed and was gone for many days, and Maleen watched the tower rise beyond her window. When it returned, it carried a message from her beloved, and she eagerly unrolled the parchment and read it; but it said only that this could not be true, for her prince did not believe that Maleen’s father the King would do such a thing.

Maleen sent back a message again, telling her Prince of the tower’s construction and her father’s wrath, and begging him for help a second time. This time, the raven did not return in time, for the tower was completed before its wings could carry it back.

Meat and drink for the seven years were carried up into the tower, and then Maid Maleen and her waiting-woman were led into it and walled up, and thus cut off from the sky and from the earth.

Maid Maleen did not want to go; she was not so much led into the tower as dragged, and she screamed and thrashed and struck out at her father, but to no avail, for she was weaker than he from being raised as a princess, though a humble one. And when the walls were put up, and the cold tower’s heart and darkness enveloped them, Maid Maleen bloodied her hands slamming them on the stone.

“Maleen,” said the waiting-woman, “be calm, or thine hands will be ruined.” “I do not care,” Maleen sobbed. “My Prince did not come for me. He does not care for me, and neither does my father. Oh! That I could tell him I will change my mind now that I know the spirit of my Prince. But I am here instead, with no way to speak beyond.” There they sat in darkness, and knew not when day or night began. Maid Maleen’s once-beloved often went round and round the tower, and called their names, but no sound from without pierced through the thick walls.

Meanwhile, the time passed. Maleen sat by the wall of the tower and listened for her Prince or her father, and she wept; and when she had wept for a year, she quieted and remained silent; and when she had been silent for a year, she finally began to feel her sorrow turn to anger, and boil like liquid fire in her throat and her heart, and when she had raged silently for a year, she turned to her waiting-woman, and asked her a question.

“Servant-girl,” she said, in the fourth year of the tower, “what dost thou know of magic?” “Nothing,” said the waiting-woman, with her eyes cast down, for it was not holy to speak of such things. “I care not for the rules mine father has put down,” Maleen said, calmly. “What dost thou know of magic?”

“Some things,” said the waiting-woman.

Maid Maleen commanded her, “tell me.”

The tower had always been cold and dark. In the fourth Year of the Tower, it began to be warm, heated from the inside by Maid Maleen’s anger. She knew now that her prince had taken her joy from her, and her father, her kingdom, for he was to give it to another man and not left it to his daughter. But in the fifth Year of the Tower, she began to realize that she was angry at not only her father but the world that had enacted the circumstances upon her.

“Servant-girl,” she asked, “what stirs anger in thine spirit?” “Nothing,” the waiting-woman said, with her eyes cast down, for it was not proper to speak of such things. “I care not for the rules the world has,” Maleen said, calmly. “What stirs anger within thee?”

“Many things,” said the waiting-woman.

Maid Maleen commanded her, "tell me."

The fifth Year of the Tower was alive, inside, with the waiting-woman’s voice as she told her tales to Maid Maleen, and Maid Maleen’s voice as she answered.

Eventually, by the diminution of the food and drink they knew that the seven years were coming to an end. As the end of the seventh year approached they ate their final meal and awaited their release. Maid Maleen awaited with silence, and though her skin was cold, her heart was hot, no longer with anger but with purpose.

On the last day of the seventh year they thought the moment of their deliverance was come; but no stroke of the hammer was heard, no stone fell out of the wall, and it seemed to Maid Maleen that her father had forgotten her. “How could he do this?” the waiting-woman asked, but Maid Maleen was long past anger.

“It matters not,” she said. “We must try our last chance, and see if we can break through the wall.” She took the bread-knife, and picked and bored at the mortar of a stone, and when she was tired, the waiting-woman took her turn. With great labour they succeeded in getting out one stone, and then a second, and a third, and when three days were over the first ray of light fell on their darkness, and at last the opening was so large that they could look out. The sky was blue, and a fresh breeze played on their faces.

But how melancholy everything looked all around! Her father’s castle lay in ruins, the town and villages were, so far as could be seen, destroyed by fire, the fields far and wide laid to waste, and no human being was visible. “How strange,” Maid Maleen said without passion, “for my father’s kingdom to have been made naught while we were suspended in that tower.”

“Oh, how horrible it is,” the waiting-woman said, putting her hands to her mouth. “How horrible it all is!” “If only for the fact that it was my land to blacken,” Maid Maleen said. “It is no better than it was within my dreams. I am not brought much joy by this.”

When the opening in the wall was large enough for them to slip through, the waiting-woman sprang down first, and then Maid Maleen followed. But where were they go to? The enemy had ravaged the whole kingdom, driven away the King, and slain all the inhabitants. “It is a shame,” Maid Maleen said, looking around at the ruined place in which she now dwelt. “I will have to go elsewhere, for there is nothing to take here.”

They wandered forth to seek another country, but nowhere did they find a shelter, or a human being to give them a mouthful of bread, and their need was so great that they were forced to appease their hunger with nettles.

When, after long journeying, they came into another country, they tried to get work everywhere; but wherever they knocked they were turned away, and no one would have pity on them. At last they arrived in a large city and went to the royal palace. There also they were ordered to go away, but at last the cook said that they might stay in the kitchen and be scullions.

“How horrible it is,” the waiting-woman said. “They care naught for your birth, Maid Maleen!” “As I do not,” Maid Maleen said, “for it matters not now. My kingdom is only of ash and embers.”

The son of the King in whose kingdom they were was, however, the very man who had been betrothed to Maid Maleen, and the man who had been the very reason for Maid Maleen’s imprisonment, who had not ridden to her aid when she had asked.

“It is he!” the waiting-woman said, to Maid Maleen. “You have only to speak to him and he will know it is you, his most beloved betrothed!” But Maid Maleen said, “I do not care, he was already taken from me,” and turned away to wash the dishes. The water around her hands steamed and bubbled as she scrubbed.

The Prince’s father had chosen another bride for him, whose face was as ugly as her heart was wicked. The wedding was fixed, and the maiden had already arrived; but because of her great ugliness, however, she shut herself in her room, and allowed no one to see her, and Maid Maleen had to take her her meals from the kitchen.

As the wedding day approached there came word to the castle that the enemy had raided the King’s lands at the borders, all of them, and begun to burn them to the ground. Whispers said that it was the new bride’s fault in some way. Thus she hid herself away ever more. At the same time the heat of summer grew worse and the rivers of the land began to dry up. Again, the bride-to-be was blamed, though only in whispers, as the court staff and servants whispered that she was accursed, for her cruel heart was no secret to them.

When the day came for the bride and bridegroom to go to church, the maiden was ashamed of her ugliness and afraid that if she showed herself, the people of the city would attack her, or mock her and laugh at her. She had never faced consequences before, see, and while her ugliness was nothing to be ashamed of, her wretched deeds were.

So she went and found the most beautiful of the servants, which was Maid Maleen, and she said, “A great piece of luck has befallen thee. I have sprained my ankle, and cannot walk well through the streets; thou shalt put on my wedding-dress and take my place. A greater honour than that thou canst not have!”

Maid Maleen, however, refused it, and said, “I wish not to be part of your life or that of the Prince, for I care not of what you feel when walking through the city streets.” For she was not deceived by the bride’s lie. It was in vain, too, then, that the bride offered Maid Maleen gold for this; Maid Maleen said only, “I wish not for gold or jewels, as they matter not to me.” At last the bride said angrily, “If thou dost not obey me, it shall cost thee thy life. I have but to speak the word, and thy head will lie at thy feet.”

Then Maid Maleen was forced to obey, and put on the bride’s magnificent dress and all her jewels, though her eyes flashed with a burning anger at the treatment she had received. But she did not look to the bride when she felt this; and the bride did not see.

When she entered the royal hall, all the guests was amazed at her great beauty, and the King said to his son, “This is the bride whom I have chosen for thee, and whom thou must lead to church.” The bridegroom was astonished, and thought, “She is like a princess I once knew; like Maid Maleen, and I should believe that it was she herself, but she has long been shut up in the tower, or dead.” He took her by the hand and led her to church. On the way was a nettle-plant, and Maid Maleen paused for a moment by it and looked at it, and she said,

“Oh nettle-plant, little nettle-plant,  
What dost thou here alone?  
I have known the time,  
When I ate thee unboiled,  
When I ate thee unroasted,  
Along the empty road.”

“What art thou saying?” asked the King’s son. “Nothing,” Maid Maleen replied, “I was only thinking of Maid Maleen.” He was surprised that she knew about her, but kept silence, for he could not have guessed that the two were one and the same. When they came to a foot-plank in the churchyard, again Maid Maleen paused for a moment and looked at it, and she said,

“Foot-bridge, do not break beneath my step,  
I am not the true bride.”

For she was still angry, and she knew the effect her words might have.

“What art thou saying there?” asked the King’s son. “Nothing,” she replied, “I was only thinking of Maid Maleen. “Dost thou know Maid Maleen?” he asked, “for thou seems to speak of her as a friend.” At this he began to suspect that perhaps she was his long lost love, though he could not know yet that Maid Maleen had escaped the fate that befell her kingdom.

“No,” Maid Maleen said, “how should I know her? She dwells in a black stone tower in a ruined wasteland, and no-one cares for her, and I suspect she has since her imprisonment died. I have only heard of her.”

“That is true,” the Prince said. “I suppose it is lucky enough that thou wouldst resemble the Maid Maleen, and not that thou would be her. Wouldst that I could have her again!”

Maid Maleen did not respond, for she did not like the idea of being had or owned, and her affection for the Prince was long past. When they came to the church-door, she once again paused and looked at it, and said,

“Church-door, break not at my touch,  
I am not the true bride.”

“What art thou saying there?” asked the Prince, once again. “Ah,” Maid Maleen answered, “I was only thinking of Maid Maleen.”

The Prince now understood that something was awry. But he could not be certain, for Maid Maleen would not admit anything. Therefore he took out a precious chain, put it round her neck, and fastened the clasp. Thereupon they entered the church, and the priest joined their hands together before the altar, and married them. As he spoke, Maid Maleen stared into the Prince’s eyes, and though to herself, and understood that she cared not for his feelings, but only for her own; and she wished only to take from him the joy that had been taken from her.

He led her home once the ceremony was complete, but she did not speak a single word the whole way. When they got back to the royal palace, she hurried into the bride’s chamber, put off the magnificent wedding dress and jewels, and dressed herself in her gray gown, stained as it was with dish-water and soap and lye. She kept nothing of the wedding but the jewel around her neck, which she knew was beloved of the prince, and meant much to him.

When the night came, and the bride was to be led into the Prince’s apartment, she put on the wedding-dress and let her veil fall over her face, so that he might not observe the deception that had been wrought. But he saw the difference in the shape of her body and could see through the veil her eyes, and was not convinced she was the right person, the woman whom he had married. So he said to her, “What didst thou say to the nettle-plant which was growing by the wayside?”

“To which nettle-plant?” asked she; “I don’t talk to nettles.” “If thou didst not do it, then thou art not the true bride,” said he, for he was now convinced she was not, or that some other strangeness was at hand. So the bride bethought herself and said, “I must go out unto my maid, who keeps my thoughts for me, for I remember not what I said at one time or another.”

She went and sought out Maid Maleen, in her chambers. “Girl,” she said, “I see thou sought to trick me, but thou must answer me now. What hast thou been saying to the nettle?”

“To the nettle?” said Maid Maleen, who was watching out the window now, with one hand round the jewel at her throat. The bride could not see her face; but she smiled. “I said naught to the nettle by the road-side.” “Thou shalt not lie to me!” shrieked the bride, “for the Prince knows of secret words thou spoke to a nettle, and thine words shall be mine now! Thou cannot take mine life and joy from me!”

At this Maid Maleen smiled, and said,

“Oh nettle-plant, little nettle-plant,  
What dost thou here alone?  
I have known the time,  
When I ate thee unboiled,  
When I ate thee unroasted,  
Along the empty road.”

The bride looked to her with suspicious eyes. “If this is not the words that thou spoke at the nettle,” she warned, “thou shalt not live to see the morn.” She ran back into the chamber, and said, “I know now what I said to the nettle,” and she repeated the words which she had just heard. “But what didst thou say to the foot-bridge when we went over it?” asked the King’s son.

“To the foot-bridge?” the bride answered, and suspected that this second might be a test. “I don’t talk to foot-bridges. Thou must be mistaken.”

At this, the Prince was sure that she was not the woman to whom he had been married, as her voice was different than the one he had heard earlier. “If you know not the words,” he said, “then thou art not the true bride.”

She again said, “I must go out unto my maid, who keeps my thoughts for me, for I remember not what I said at one time or another.” And she ran out and found Maid Maleen again. “Girl, what didst thou say to the foot-bridge?” she asked. “Should thou choose to try and take mine life and joy, thou shalt not live to see midnight!”

“I said nothing,” said Maid Maleen, “save for -

“Foot-bridge, do not break beneath my step,  
I am not the true bride.”

And she was smiling, with the jewel beneath her fingers.

“Thine deceptions are brittle and pathetic,” the bride cried, “wretched girl! Thou shalt not keep my queenhood from me.” But she hurried back into the Prince’s room, and said, “I know now what I said to the foot-bridge,” and she repeated the words. “But what didst thou say to the church-door?” the Prince asked her.

By now, the bride understood what would occur. “I must go out unto my maid,” she began. “For she keeps thine thoughts, yes,” the Prince said, and waved a hand. The bride hurried out to Maid Maleen again. The bride hurried out to Maid Maleen again, and stamped her foot on the floor. “Girl,” she demanded, “what didst thou say to the church-door? Answer clearly, or you shalt not live to see supper tonight!”

Maid Maleen did not look at the bride. “I said nothing but,”

“Church-door, break not at my touch,  
I am not the true bride.”

“Cur!” cried the bride, “I will break thine neck for that!” but though she was in a terrible passion, she hastened back into the bed-room of the Prince, and said, “I know now what I said to the church-door,” and she repeated the words. Now the Prince had heard her scream at Maid Maleen outside the door, and knew that she was not whom he had married. “Then where,” he asked, “hast though put the jewel which I gave the at the church-door?” “What jewel?” she answered, and knew within her that her deception was over. “Thou didst not give me any jewel!” “Then thou art not the true bride,” the Prince said triumphantly.

Without another word the bride turned and left the room, and went to Maid Maleen, and said, “Give to me the jewel that was put around your throat this after-noon!” “I do not have such a thing,” Maid Maleen said, calmly, for she had taken the jewel off and placed it in her pocket. “There is no such thing.” The bride did not properly believe her, but hastened back into the room, and said, “there is no such jewel. This was a test, that thou has put me through, though I know not why!”

“I myself put it round thy neck, and I myself fastened it; if thou dost not know that, thou art not the true bride.” The Prince drew the veil from her face, and when he saw her immeasurable ugliness, he sprang back terrified, and said, “How comest thou here? Who art thou?” “I am thy betrothed bride, but because I feared lest the people should mock me when they saw me out of doors, I commanded the scullery-maid to dress herself in my clothes, and go to the church instead of me.” At this the Prince knew that where there was one deception there could be another, and he was certain that Maid Maleen was the woman to whom he had been wed.

“Where is the girl?” said he; “I want to see her, go and bring her here.” The bride went out and told the servants that the scullery-maid was an imposter, and that they must take her out in the courtyard of the palace and strike off her head. The servants went and found Maid Maleen, and wanted to drag her out, but she screamed so loudly for help that the Prince ran out and found her being dragged away, and ordered them to set her free instantly. Lights were brought, and he saw her, and said, “Thou art Maid Maleen, I know it; my betrothed from before the dark Tower was built.” “I am,” Maid Maleen said, and was calm. “It was my hand that thou held in marriage; it is I who is thine lawfully wedded wife.”

“Why,” cried the Prince, “didst thou not say so before!” “I remained silent out of fear,” Maid Maleen answered, with her eyes downcast, “for thine true bride didst threaten to kill me, to have my head cut off, to break my neck.” At this the Prince was enraged, and turned to the bride, and said, “Thine own greed and wickedness shalt be thine downfall!” And he ordered that she, not Maid Maleen, be taken to the courtyard to have her head struck off her shoulders.

With that, the Prince hurried back to his room, to await the appearance of his wife. Maid Maleen excused herself, and she took the jewel that he had clasped around her neck and walked down to the courtyard, and waited until the servants had killed the bride. Then she waited until they departed the courtyard; and only then did she emerge into the open, and she took from her pocket the jewel, and placed it around the headless stump of the bride. Then she disappeared to the kitchen and called to her waiting-woman, and the waiting-woman with her departed the castle in secrecy.

It was as such that Maid Maleen destroyed first the bride’s hope and joy, and then the Prince’s, took the lives of both the bride and her Prince, for once the Prince realized Maid Maleen was missing he sent for her, only to find the bride dead in the courtyard, with the jewel around her throat. At this he despaired, for he thought he must have been mistaken, and killed the one with whom he had been truly wed; but he did not understand what had happened, and knew only that his Maid Maleen was gone, and that the bride he had killed in her place was that who his father had chosen for him.

The bride’s father was the enemy; and it came to pass that that foreign King raided the Prince’s lands, and razed the towns, and burnt and salted the fields, and the oppressive heat grew steadily worse, until there were no hills of grass but dunes of sand instead, and in night and day the Prince’s realm was scoured to a blasted dry husk of a realm. The Prince’s reign was thus known as the last ever, for after his death the kingdom burned in riots and drought, and the Prince himself was set alight at a stake, once his dead bride’s family reached what had been his palace.

And the winds blew over his land and turned it to so much dust; and thus the land was as blackened as the Maid Maleen’s kingdom, and she set out, satisfied with her work, and searched for something else to take from one who had much, for her heart had grown fiery and wicked with the joy of destruction.

And thus the only thing that stood in both kingdoms at the end was the black Tower of stone, the Tower in which she had spent seven years, in which she had cultivated a flame within herself that gave no indication of its presence to those outside, no light, no shadows, just a heat that burst from her when she chose it, to scorch the world around her and ruin the lives of those to whom she spoke.

So went Maid Maleen, the maiden of the Tower, and when children hear her tale they whisper of her presence; but none speak too loudly, for they do not wish to garner her attention, lest she come for them next.


	3. Little Match Girl

It was the end of the year, the very last night, and the streets of the city were dark, save for the pools of light shed by those street-lamps that had not yet gone out. In this frigid night there stumbled along a little girl, with no hat, and no coat, and feet barren as she stumbled through the snow. When she had left her home, she’d had a set of slippers, but they had been too large for her as they had belonged to her mother, and she’d lost them while running out of the way of several of the carriages that hurried carelessly by.

She was very small, her hair stringy and fair, her little hands and feet all red and blue from the cold and dry. Though the snow was thick upon the ground, and in the air, her skin was cracked and bleeding on the knuckles and soles of her feet, though she of course could not feel the pain, for she was too cold.

The little girl had not eaten in days, for her parents were not very fond of her, nor of each other. She had on a thin white dress, though it was stained through with mud and grime, and a canvas apron with several deep pockets on the front. In these she carried her only possessions, which she sought to sell for pennies with which to purchase food: a bundle of matches, clean pale wood and bright red match-heads. In her little hands she clutched a few matches each. But it did not matter; no one had bought anything from her for the whole day, as sadly as she had stood out in the cold with them, and no-body had given her even a singular penny to buy a scrap of bread with. Now she trembled as she made her way through the dark, all cold and sorrowful, and no-one thought even to look at her.

In all the houses around, she could see, there were fires in the hearths and candles in the windows. Occasionally she would creep up to one of them and press her little hands against the glass, but the panes were so cold they burned her hands, and she had to quickly pull away lest her skin freeze in place and tear away when she ducked out of sight of those inside.

She was not meant to look in through the windows, of course, for they were not her houses. But for one with a life such as hers - full of sorrow and grief, and terrible dislike - such views were a vision into the life she wished that she had. To those inside the houses, if they were swift, they may have caught a glimpse of the little maiden peering in at their homes, gaunt face surrounded by fair hair strung through with snowflakes, which could have been beautiful if she were not so very hurt and tired.

Enough times, though, had she been shouted at or had things thrown into her face that she did not dare risk more than the swiftest looks into houses that were not her own. The little match girl hurried away from the beautiful visions. She stopped a moment in a corner formed by the garden wall of a house and its stone side, a little pocket where the snow fell deep but the wind did not blow so horribly cold, and there she sat herself down and pulled her knees up against her chest. She was unwilling to return to her home, for no one had bought any matches from her and she had no money to bring home, and she knew her father would beat her for her failure. Besides, she knew, her home was no warmer than the street-corner in which she now found herself, for their walls had great cracks in them and let all the wind and snow in.

She could not feel her hands or feet for the cold, nor were her arms or legs able to sense the world, and she thought for a moment about taking one of her matches and lighting it to feel its warmth. She knew her father would not be pleased if she did so, but the thought of the fire and its heat nearly made her cry with want, and she knew the tears would freeze on her cheeks, so she hastily drew one of the matches out and clumsily struck it against the wall beside her.

It blazed up in a glow of light, though she almost could not see it; it was so bright in the dark, cold night that she wanted to close her eyes, but she refused and watched it burn down instead. The heat grew close to her fingertips, but she could not feel it; she was too cold to feel it. She saw it touch against her skin, but even then, she felt nothing, as if it had not burned at all. The little maiden watched the flame touch against her skin, and finally burn out, leaving only a bent and burned wooden stick in her fingertips, and a slight pink hue to her skin where the flames had touched it.

Oh, it was not enough. She withdrew another match, and struck this one as well, and this time she cupped her hands around the little flame, hoping she could feel it this time. But now, though, she paused, and looked around her, and it was to her almost as if she could see the lives of those around her like the walls had become windows, clear and easy to see through. She watched the people within the house she was huddled against sit around a table covered in candles and food, talking to each other. She saw the flames in the hearth, and blankets draped on the chairs and the couch on the far wall facing the fire-place. The little match-maiden could smell the roast goose, but she could not feel the warmth of the place; she was too cold, and could feel nothing.

As she searched the vision beyond her, the match went out, and the picture disappeared. With a frustrated cry, the girl drew out another match and lit it once again against the rough stone, dropping the previous one to the snow where it lay, hissing for a moment before going fully dead.

Finally, this time, she felt the heat of the match against her skin. It was painful, yes, for the heat against the chill of her flesh was nearly unbearable, but she cradled it close as she stared towards the window of the house she was huddled against.

She thought of their many warm candles, and looked to the houses through their windows and walls and saw their big green Christmas tree, and their roast goose and baked apples. And she thought of herself, out in the snow, with her little bare hands and her little bare feet, frozen to ice-cubes in the snow.

In that moment, she felt something else begin to warm her. Not the flame of the match, flickering between her fingers, but something inside her chest, like a match that she had just struck.

“Why is it,” she thought to herself, “that should they be allowed to have all those nice things and yet I have to stay out here in the snow?”

Nothing answered her, for there was no answer to give. But the little maiden realized how this made her feel, and the depth of her anger was such that for a moment she was stunned by it. How could one so small as her feel such fury? Why, it was almost as if she were the match now, burning-hot, angry at the people who had everything they ever wanted and yet gave her nasty glances if she so much as looked in through their window-panes!

The match in her hands burned all the way down, laying on her skin, and she let it turn to a wisp of smoke, feeling only the faintest heat in her palms.

“If I must be cold,” she said, to herself, “then why should they not also be cold? If I must hurt, then why should they be comfortable?” And she decided to give them a gift of her own, to go with their beautiful feasts and fine presents and warm homes.

The little girl took the bundle of matches from her apron and, all as one, scraped the whole thing along the stone garden wall. The light that blazed up was so bright she could barely look at it, but it did not burn out as she thought it might; no, instead it stayed lit, burning without consuming. For a moment the match-girl paused, wondering what to do, and then she took the first match and drew it forth from the bundle, a little flame.

She stood up in the snow and hobbled over to the window again, where the glass was hemmed by wood and glue to keep the cold out. There she laid the match, and watched in astonishment as the flame leapt forth like a rabbit, onto the window-sill. The people inside did not seem to notice, so the little girl waited, her torch of matches held in one hand, while the fire raced along the wood and slipped into the house. It jumped to the walls and floor, and it was mere moments before the entire inside was alight.

Then, the maiden saw, the people inside noticed. But it was too late to stop the joyous flame; she watched it jump to their big pretty tree, to their pile of wrapping-paper from their presents. She held her empty hand out towards the warmth, and she felt it in her skin.

Oh, how beautiful it was! Oh, how happy it made her. She smiled as the snow began to melt from the heat, and trotted along to the next building, quite happy with herself now. Around her, the snow withered away, melted by the heat of her little match-bundle. She withdrew another one when she got to the next house and laid it upon the window-sill again, and watched the fire jump forth like a young deer again.

So she went, and as she went she began to be so happy that she started to sing to herself, giving a match to each house she went by. Along she went down the block until every house behind her was alight, and then she crossed the street and went back the way she had come. Despite the heavy snow, the street was beginning to be quite warm.

Oh, but she had many matches left! So the little maiden went through the city, walking this way and that, leaving her matches on door-jambs and window-sills and front porches, all the way to her very own home, with its cracks in the walls and its drafty roof that barely stayed on in the wind.

“Why,” the little match girl said, “I believe I should like to make my own home warm as well!” By the time she had reached her house, she had used up all but one of her matches, and she took the last one with its hot burning tip and stepped forward to the door. She could hear her mother and father within, grumbling to themselves, and she paused for only a second before she bent down and laid the match on her own door-step.

“There we go,” she said, with a smile in the darkness, her white teeth and pale hair shining in the firelight. “Now I am home!”

With that, she walked forward and stepped into the house, closing the door behind her. The fire spread as it had before, with all the other homes, and hers did not burn for long, but it did burn bright, and it did burn hot, as the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's really short.
> 
> That's the first thin little volume; maybe there are more in the series?


End file.
